


What Dark Hands

by mellish



Category: Nabari no Ou
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Gen, Multi, POV Second Person, Sad, Second Chances, Stream of Consciousness, killing machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-14
Updated: 2009-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 07:11:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows about death slipping like sand through fingertips, not the way you do.  Yoite-centric.  Set from the time he was found by Kairoshuu up until his final return to Banten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dark Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Title, subtitles, and inspiration from the beautiful poem _Miniature Bridges, Your Mouth_ by Marty McConnell.
> 
> Warnings: Major spoilers up to chapter 51, speculation, suggestive themes, violence.

**  
_i. the cat comes back with a dead bird to the doorstep. an offering. bloodless._   
**

You know the memory of darkness like the back of your hand. How it's night time, the cold wind rushing in your ears, both hands up against the deep slit in your neck (how it’s singing); the way it’s warm and wet all around you. Your feet slap in the pavement in a sloppy rhythm, your mouth is full of asphalt and ash. You want to call out for help but there's no one to call to, and the back of your throat is burning up with something sour. You’re dying (but you should be _dead_ ), you’re dying too slowly for comfort. (If only - from the very beginning -) maybe you slip, maybe you just stop because you can’t manage another step. The world around you swells with pain, just one big mass of everything that bites and hurts and burns, and you’re on your knees in the middle of it. (Mother said, _name him after the sky_ \- so his name is like the sky, but is he _he_?)

It's a long, long time (too long) before anyone finds you.

You’re looking at your hands (they’re red, so red they're burning), and that’s when you hear him say: “If you make death your life, you will disappear.” You look up, and he’s looming over you. “I promise.”

The night is rushing past him, suddenly alive with hate and madness (if only, from the very beginning) – you stand up, let the man take your arm, because you knows your hands stain everything (and death slips away again. _Always_ -) "I will give you a new life."

You glance at his eyes, the strong set of his jaw. His face is so certain. He can't be lying.

"Or death, if that's what you prefer." He laughs – it’s a buttery warm sound, nothing like rust scraping off blades, knives slicing through the air.

Later, in the hospital room, under the sheets where no one can find you, you press your hand to the cotton taped around your neck and you know the memory will last forever, a kiss so dark and violent you'll never rub it off ( _neverneverever_ ).

When you can finally stand again, you creep to the bathroom mirror and peel off the tape and there it is - like a finger bent, like a crooked smile. Like everything not beautiful, permanently etched upon your skin.

You keep the memory of darkness tucked under your collar, where no one can see it.

\---

You stay in the hospital for weeks, running your eyes and fingers over the scroll that was given you. It's difficult - the first few times you attempt Kira, the world goes black (like that night, only there's no singing, no blood).

When you think you can finally do it properly, Mr. Hattori comes to see you. He takes you by the wrist and says, "Come with me, child."

You think about his tight grip around your bones (like it could break you) - you think about whether this will save you.

He makes you execute a traitor, in the garden of his sprawling home. You don't know how to control Kira. The spark of life shoots inside him, makes the man's head bubble, rupture, burst. Bits of everything in him litter the grass, fall like cherry petals - you're vomiting blood, catching it in your hands, stained red and burning like fire ( _Death god!_ They chanted. _Death god!_ ) – now you’ll never escape.

"Well done," Mr. Hattori says, squeezing your shoulder with one broad palm. You don’t have to look at him to know that he is smiling. You don’t want to look at him because you are afraid.

 

 **  
_ii. you’re so silent, even naked, almost absent. i hush, too, why are we here._   
**

Yukimi says, "What's your name?"

But you don't want to tell him. You don't have one. (Mother said, _name him after the sky_.) You don't want to look at him. You hitch up your shoulders then you curl into a ball, and contemplate how the world ends with a baby crying and blood everywhere (Mother said, _I love him_ \- but is he _he?_ )

Yukimi - who has scars all over his arms, who doesn't hide them - scratches the back of his neck in irritation. (You wonder if he has knives, too; if you'll annoy him so much that he'll whip them through the air at you.)

"It's so hard to call you just _you_. God, kids these days."

 _I'm sixteen_ , you think about telling him (but your shadow against the wall is oh so small) – only it's easier to stay quiet. It's easier to do nothing. (You don’t know then that he already knows your age, or that he’ll call you kid anyway, even when you tell him.)

You hear him trudge away to the kitchen, bang pots and pans (knives?) "Kazuho!" He shouts.

The lady doctor with glasses and curly hair (his sister, family, darling sibling – but she doesn’t look like she melts into the dark, she probably doesn’t betray) is sorting through papers full of things about you that you don't understand. "What?"

"What do you give kids to eat?"

"Uh..." she notices you staring, and smiles. "Well, you heard him. What would you like to eat?"

You're _starving_. But it's easier to stay quiet. You don't uncurl, don't lift your head. You turn your eyes away because you're ashamed (and no one wants you looking at them, you worthless brat - why are you staring like that, goddamn -)

"Make him soba!" She shouts back, after a few moments. She smiles at you again. "You know, Yukimi makes pretty good soba."

He does.

\---

You grow. Yukimi doesn’t know what to do with you, with the pants you ripped through the other day, your limbs getting long and spindly, it _hurts_ – you aren’t crying, but you can’t help those ragged breaths. Curled up against the floor, you want to be smaller than ever (maybe then the pain will shrink) but you’re getting bigger instead, your existence expanding in every direction, dragging your skin with it. You can’t move. ( _And you’re uglier than ever, you stupid murderous thing, you killer without a name or face -_ )

“Hey, kid.” Yukimi is crouching next to you, and when you manage to look at him, still shaking all over, you see that he is frowning. “What the hell is happening to you?”

You can’t answer. You’ve forgotten how – or it just hurts so much, you can’t bear to talk. Without warning, he touches you. You burn all over, you shove him away, you kick but the effort makes your muscles tear, all your bones feel like they’re breaking. He picks you up, ignoring how you’re jabbing at him with your elbow, and brings you over to the couch, where he thankfully lets you go. “Jeez! You’re worse than a street cat!” You look at him spitefully, eyes narrowed, quivering.

He fetches you a blanket, probably thinking that you feel cold. Then he calls up Kazuho. You stay on the couch shaking, struggling away whenever he comes near. Whenever he tries to touch you. Tries to help.

Later that afternoon, Kazuho comes over, and makes a big pot of stew. They kneel beside you, Yukimi hesitantly holding the steaming bowl, Kazuho clutching her clipboard.

“You’re going to have to eat a lot of this,” Kazuho tells you, gently. “Because, um, you seem to be having a major growth spurt, and your body isn’t really ready for it...” she trails off, looks at Yukimi worriedly. There’s a sharp pain in both your shoulders, in your knees, and you turn away from them, breathing hard.

“No you don’t –“ Yukimi grabs you with one hand – the pain makes your head spin – and tugs you back around to face him. “I’m gonna make you eat if it kills both of us!” You don’t want to open your mouth, it hurts too much – but he’s insistent. He shoves the spoon at you, forces your lips to part, over and over. You swallow it, even if you feel more like retching all over the place. The pain remains unbelievable, but each spoonful warms your stomach a little, makes you feel a little less weak. You finish the whole bowl, and two more after that.

Kazuho makes some notes on her clipboard, then stands. She gives you another worried glance. You pretend you don’t see. Then she turns to Yukimi. “Make you sure you feed him three full meals a day, and two snacks. Nothing too difficult for him to eat. Call me if you need any help.”

He takes her to the door. After she leaves, you think he might return to his computer, but he goes back to the couch and stands over you instead.

"I have no idea what leader told you, but are you really all right with just dying?"

You glare at him until he goes away. Because no one can understand, no one knows about death slipping like sand through fingertips, not the way you do.

\---

Yukimi is sweeping away your cut hair. You watch him empty it into the dust bin, wrapping your arms around your legs. It’s night time. You’re remembering the way he touched your hair, the way he called you stupid when you slapped his hand away. The way you know he didn’t really mean it. You run your fingers through your hair, wondering how that could be possible, listening to Yukimi mutter under his breath.

“Tetsuo...Kosaburo? Tennosuke? Kirasuke? Why do I keep thinking of cat names?”

He pauses by the window, puts a hand up against the dark glass. “Yoite...”

You repeat it without thinking, remembering that dark night, the wind, the asphalt, the glowing of your hands like red stars. “Yoite.” It echoes in your ears. “Yoite.”

Yukimi looks at you as if he’s never really seen you before.

\---

The next day he tells you, “My name is Yukimi.”

“I know,” you answer.

You spend the rest of the afternoon learning how to make pot stew with him.

 

 **  
_iii. your face has the shape of my palm and i think lungful. let want out with the cat._   
**

At first, you want to hurt the keeper of the Shinrabansho. More badly than you’ve ever wanted to hurt anything before, and you know you’ve hurt so many, why should this be any different? You find yourself imagining his matchstick arms being broken, blood leaking from the corners of his lips. Bruises on his knees, anything that will make him less – beautiful? Innocent? Something you feel like you can’t dare touch, because you know you’ll just ruin it completely?

You know you’ll have to see him again, after that incident in Fuuma. You can’t get him out of your head. He’s crying, telling you to stop, but you can’t do anything about it.

\---

He still has the only answer, and that’s why you come to his house, wondering if you’ll have the nerve to take him to your world, full of snakes and people murmuring about death. He doesn’t act surprised to see you, although you see him shiver when he thinks you aren’t looking. You lie to him, and you get the answer you want. When he leaves, you still feel his presence.

You find yourself thinking about when you can see him again (but it’s for the task at hand, you’ve got a real goal, you know what it is).

\---

For the first time you see a ray of light piercing through the darkness. Miharu. Light. Cutting through the darkness, which has been spreading these days, the more you use Kira. Yesterday, Yukimi had to repeat himself thrice before you could answer him, and today it takes two heaping spoonfuls of chilli powder for you to derive any taste from your ramen.

You know the life is leaking from inside of you, but that isn’t the answer. It never was. You’re dying, slowly, but that’s not what you want anymore. What you want is nothingness, and the only answer is Miharu, who is small and has big eyes, who talks to you even when the only thing you can do is hurt him, tear him apart. Sometimes, you start thinking he’s too good for this world. Too good for your selfishness.

It isn’t enough to make you take back your wish.

\---

These days you spend too long in the bathroom, coughing up blood. Yukimi thinks you don’t know he’s listening on the other side of the door. You make sure to rinse the sink carefully, to blot out any evidence, so that when you leave and he glares at you, you don’t have to answer to anything.

When he’s too absorbed in his surface job, you huddle in the corner and peel off your gloves. Your hands are dark with sickness, with loss of energy and life. The same thing has started to happen to your chest, your back. Both of your legs.

You pull your gloves back on and decide that it isn’t worth thinking about such an ugly body.

\---

It confuses you and you hate it. Why are they all so nice to you? Why does Miharu want to grant your wishes? Why do Miharu’s eyes look like that? ( _When I’m thinking about Yoite things_ , Miharu says. But why does he think of you at all, when, for what reasons...? _No, it’s for his friends, of course of course of course -_ ) Why does Hanabusa stretch out her hands, why does Thobari wonder about your motives? Why does Yukimi’s lemon tea taste so good?

No, it doesn’t, he doesn’t, she doesn’t, none of them do, they aren’t any good, they’re just confusing you. None of those things matter. You’ll only hurt yourself if you start thinking so. You need to focus. You need to _remember..._

The only thing you want is to disappear. It’s the only thing you want, because death is too unreliable, because it always slips away. It’s the only thing you want.

\---

...the rain is unbearable when you’re alone.

\---

It continues, despite how wrong you know it is. The more you know Miharu, the less you want to be alone. The more you breathe when you’re next to him, the less you want to die. (But you still want to disappear. It’s different. You’re just fulfilling your end of the bargain.) Sometimes you even think you want to touch him, to understand if he’s real, because that’s how he makes you feel. Like you exist.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you, and you wish you didn’t. You don’t know what he wants from you, but you know that you can’t possibly give it. It’s like what the student said, after you blew off her arm (there was blood everywhere, yours and hers) – you’re nothing but a nuisance to Miharu. You can’t be anything else.

That doesn’t stop you from feeling empty whenever you can’t see him. (And you can’t see him more and more now, the world is so blurry, all shadows and dark.)

It embarrasses you when you realize that he has seen your scar. The stains on your chest, on your hands. Now he knows about the darkness, know he knows your secrets. Now he knows just what little meaning you bear, and that helping you is of very little consequence. You find yourself crying, but you think it’s partially because your hand is without a glove and against his cheek.

Miharu is pressing your skin against his and telling you he’s there. _I’m here, Yoite._

It has been a long, long time since you’ve touched another.

\---

It’s a dream. There’s no other explanation for it. It’s a dream and you’re flying in your train seat with the stars rushing past. It’s all dark, now, beyond sight: it’s sound as well, smell, taste, everything has melted into nothing. But it doesn’t matter. Miharu’s beside you, his thin fingers curled up into your own, and you _know_ he’s there. He’s so warm. You think about saying, _you’re my only answer_. But in your head it keeps turning into _you’re my only reason_. You recall your laughter, the day you’ve spent together, the lightness in your chest; you know it will all leave another scar. A different one.

(That doesn’t change the fact that you’re only good for suffering, and that there’s only one way for things to end. That doesn’t change anything – not even this – not even Miharu’s head underneath your chin, the smell of his hair, the idea of light engulfing everything...)

You know your hands are black as sin. That they stain everywhere. That they kill. But Miharu makes them feel like the color of the sky: endless, strange. Alive.


End file.
